


Enforced Transfer

by EchoAnansi



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoAnansi/pseuds/EchoAnansi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn't loan him out. They just suspended his sentence.</p><p>Anyone who thought that was the end of the matter was in for an unpleasant wake-up call.</p><p>---<br/>Former Title: Suspension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suspension

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for character introspection and stylistic writing.
> 
> Thanks to Chiad for beta-reading. Errors belong to both of us equally on account of us not agreeing on things. Probably.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They didn't loan him out. They just suspended his sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the original one-shot, with some minor edits for quality.

**Arrival**

_He stays silent._

The prison bars clang shut behind him. The rough cuffs of the prison uniform chafe against his wrists. Chains links tap deceptively lightly between his hands and between his feet – no chances for the professional thief and escape artist. Spies are apparently considered a threat to national security. Even those that worked for the C.I.A.

He really should have known.

The C.I.A. didn't loan him to U.N.C.L.E.; they just suspended his sentence. How ...nice of them to mention that only _after_ the fact. After he stepped back onto American ground. Land of liberty. _What a joke._

Five years since he'd been “loaned” to U.N.C.L.E, and he'd just been planning to take a short victory holiday – walk down the street a free man, on soil where he'd been leashed and collared for fifteen years. A short holiday, visit the old landmarks, take some time to get a grip on how everything and nothing has changed all at once before heading back to the team that had caused so many paradigm shifts for him that he can't help but smile. Paradigm shifts like how the thought of sticking it to his handlers – _jailers_ – has nothing on the thought of returning to U.N.C.L.E. and meeting them wherever for their next death-defying, saving-the-world, I've-always-got-your-back mission; like realizing that freedom is worth much more because now they'll know this is his choice, and he's not letting them go until someone pries them from his cold dead fingers.

But he doesn't get a chance to grab onto them and hold. Doesn't even get a chance to explain that he's desperately _not_ leaving behind everything they are with no regrets. Sanders and his agents pick him up as soon as he steps off the plane in New York. It takes all of one minute for him to understand what is happening, and seconds to inform Sanders of exactly what he thinks of the situation.

Turns out they're not really all that surprised. It takes a matter of hours for them to book him, run him through the system. They must have done the paperwork – _jumped the hoops –_ in advance.

It takes less than a week before he's on his way to whatever complex they've deemed secure enough to hold the professional break-and-enter artist with a decade of federal intelligence and secrets floating around in his head.

\---- ---- ----

He can't say he's terribly surprised to be led past the general population cells. He wouldn't last a week, hedonist – _spy, soldier, “_ _C.I.A.'s finest”_ _–_ that he is, and dead men are very hard to negotiate with – _even_ _the K.G.B.'s best_ _loses when the odds are stacked against him, just ask_ _little miss M.I. 6_. But God help him, he is not going back to work for Sanders. Not even if it means the last five years of his sentence – _and oh how that gall_ _s_ _. The con conned. How very trite and clich_ _é._ _Die slowly and ignobly,_ _Sanders._ – will be in this hole.

Working for the C.I.A. – _being their best_ – would mean crossing paths with the others. The finest of other organizations. Like M.I. 6 and the K.G.B. (or, god forbid, U.N.C.L.E.) – _Teller._ _Kuryakin._ _Waverly. No._ – It wasn't even a difficult choice. Easy really.

Working for a competing agency would guarantee a repeat of his original orders, so long ago in Berlin, and Rome. He won't get back into the field except – _no. Stop thinking that._ No point dwelling on the impossible. _Live in the here and now._

He blinks, focusing on what's around him as the prison guard and the C.I.A. suit walk away because it's the first time in days they've left him alone.

Concrete floor, three concrete walls. Bars behind and above him. Roughly four steps long, two and a half wide – _nine feet by six_.

How lovely. _His own private room, amenities included._ Solitary.

\---- ---- ----

**Departure**

They leave him there to “consider his options”, as if they don't know this is a forgone conclusion. And maybe Sanders hasn't figured it out, but he isn't going back into the field except with them at his back. He trusts them after all they've been through, but he certainly isn't – _can't, and with good reason_ – going to trust whoever the C.I.A. line up to “keep an eye on him” – _shoot him_ _in the back._

Sanders can take his offers and shove them where the sun don't shine. _Your_ _Kansas is_ _showing, soldier._

But three meters by two meters – _too much time across the pond, Solo_ – is not a lot of space, and being confined will kill him just as surely as a bullet.

\---- ---- ----

He doesn't count the days. Not with a calendar, not by the meals, not by the rotation of lights, and definitely not by talking to the guards. The faster he can lose track of time, the faster it will stop being something that Sanders can try to leverage him with.

There is a lot of noise in Solitary. People screaming, people sobbing, people – _some poor sod from gen pop –_ trying to fight their way out of the grip of guards dragging them into cells for punishment. It all reeks of a level of pathetic that he refuses to descend to.

He doesn't count the number of altercations he hears. He doesn't count the number of fights between the visits. He doesn't count the number of visits. The visits where the guards politely escort him out of his personal box, hose him down and hand him new prison blues before sitting him in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair across from Sanders or whoever else is representing the C.I.A. today. He doesn't count how many questions he doesn't answer, how many offers he doesn't respond to, even when they become threats.

He does count the number of guards that escort him, and he can't stop the feeling of satisfaction as the number decreases (four, then three, now the minimum two) and how those guards are at attention around the C.I.A. but at ease – _or at least easier –_ as soon as it's just him and them and they're in charge in their own territory once again. He doesn't know how long he's been here, but he's gaining a reputation as one of the calmest denizens of Solitary. Calm means easy to handle; means they're getting comfortable and even if he doesn't plan to take advantage of it – _yet_ – doesn't mean it's not a useful image to cultivate. Cultivating a specific image is never disadvantageous. It's what he does. It's easier to get what he wants – _need_ _s_ – if he controls what others know about him.

He'd always known he was rather egocentric. Freedom or death and all that nonsense. He really had made a perfect picture of the hedonistic capitalist American that the Soviets were so much against. And he'd thought that it made him better, or at least his _something_ better – keep what you earn or some such thought.

He shouldn't be surprised that associating with two people from behind the Iron Curtain had taught him that there were lines to be drawn. A bit ironic that those two people, who would gladly step in front of bullets for ideals and each other, would teach him to value himself and not just what the world could give him. That his services were not actually something he had to whore out to survive in style. That he could actually thrive while holding on to some semblance of self-respect – that there were places that took only what you could and would give, and that it could be a goddamn honour to give freely. To step in front of a bullet for someone who would do the same, and berate you just the same as you berate them every time they do it for you.

The war had made him more of a cynic than he'd understood until he worked side-by-side with a man and a woman who had weathered conditions just as harsh and come out much better people than he had.

\---- ---- ----

He's not counting the days, so he doesn't know how long it is before he hears a scuffle on the other end of the hall that doesn't match the usual noise.

He huffs a laugh because either he's going mad or something is happening that he hadn't dared hope for. Because no one walks silently, so he hears the slight scuffle-step of felted shoes made to be as quiet as possible on linoleum floors designed to echo. He hears the soft impacts of flesh-on-unsuspecting-flesh, and holds his breath. He waits, and does not let loose the laugh that is building in his lungs.

He waits until a familiar shadow turns the corner, sauntering casually, and stops in front of his cell, key held in a hand attached to a tall, _tall_ frame, below a wryly smiling – _concerned_ – face.

“Cowboy, don't keep Chop Shop waiting.”

_Illya. Gaby._

The bars clang as they slide open.

Freedom.

_He laughs._


	2. Interlude: Briefings/Resignations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would have been funny if it hadn't been so incredibly stupid. As it was, he certainly derived a great amount of vindictive amusement over the entire situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So from here out the structure is a little different - POVs will switch, writing style is inconsistent. This is mostly because I wrote the last three chapters as part of NaNoWriMo, and partly because Napoleon's situation and viewpoint and mentality are all very different from the rest of the cast.
> 
> Also, chapter 2 is where I first discovered that Waverly is way too fun to write. Seriously - he almost derailed this entire project with monologuing/commentary...

**Waverly**

“Ah yes, Agent Kuryakin, Agent Teller. Welcome back. I trust that everything went well? Excellent.” He pauses, and watches the two agents glance quickly around the entranceway he’s intercepted them at.

“Ah, yes,” he begins again. He would never admit to being nervous, but this is a conversation he has never had a desire to be part of, necessary as it is. “You were expecting to be met by Agent Solo upon your return. Well, you see, there has been a … complication, shall we say? Yes, a complication. Let’s discuss this further in my office.”

He pivots and turns down the hall, swiftly punching in his code on the security pad that grants access to the elevator that leads up to the executive offices. He enters his office and takes a seat, pausing long enough to determine that neither of the agents that followed him intend to sit before he continues.

“It appears that certain ...organizations… were less than forthright when drawing up contracts for - at the time - their agent. And, you see, well. I’m sure after all this time we were all aware of what Mr. - pardon - Agent Solo had planned.” He notices Teller’s eyes narrowing as Kuryakin’s jaw clenches, and hurries to continue, “He had also, mind you, planned to return. Two weeks holiday, he emphasized when placing his request. Time off, you see, certainly nothing vaguely resembling a resignation.”

“Alexander, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so…” A gesture towards the flustered man. The sharp smile on the petite form did not lessen the tension in the room at all.

“Well, Gaby, my dear -”

“Has Cowboy misplaced himself?” Kuryakin cuts him off sharply.

“Well, hm. In a manner of speaking.” Two sets of unimpressed eyebrows raised, almost in concert, and disconcertingly similar to the manner in which the man absent from the room would amicably use to call another’s bluff. The remaining two of the trio were decidedly not amicable. “It would perhaps be more accurate to say the C.I.A. has misplaced him.”

It was incredibly gratifying to point the anger in the room towards another country.

\--- --- ---

**Teller**

The only surprising thing about the situation was that Solo hadn’t had a backup plan. Gaby heaves an internal sigh. _We really should have known better._

She and Agent Kuryakin leave HQ quietly, though she can see the tension radiating off her present partner in the way his usual smooth observance of a street turns into furtive flickers of ice blue eyes from corner to corner, shadow to shadow. She puts her hand into the crook of his elbow. It is a comfortable act they have fallen into on several occasions now. Kuryakin pulls his shoulders back, relaxing slightly to take on the role of dutiful spouse like a second skin. He glances down and the amused tilt of his mouth with the slightly irked incline of his eyebrow indicates that he knows exactly what she is doing.

She grins back brightly. Men can be so prickly, it is good to be partnered with two who know precisely when they are being manipulated (though Kuryakin could certainly afford to learn to be less predictable in his responses.)

\--- --- ---

It takes roughly two hours for the K.G.B. to contact their operative. Neither of them is surprised when the call comes in from the concierge, though she notes that he is flexing his fists in a way that still makes her anxious. She’s not sure if she should be more or less concerned when Kuryakin returns from the call and only destroys one small, albeit solid, table. She’s still slightly tense when he flops down on the chesterfield next to her.

“We go after Cowboy, yes.” He states it like a fact, or maybe like he’s sulking. It’s hard to tell with Kuryakin - Solo is much more obvious when he’s in a mood.

“Of course.” She replies, “Will Oleg continue to be a problem?” Kuryakin frowns in her direction, and she keeps her posture perfect while shifting in the armchair to face him.

“Nyet.” he says abruptly.

She raises an eyebrow pointedly, “I find that hard to believe.”

Kuryakin looks away before responding curtly again, “I resigned.”

She laughs - bright and clear and with only a hint of bitterness - as they begin to plan. They have a meeting with Waverly tomorrow after all, and preliminary plans must be done by then.

\--- --- ---

**Waverly**

As much as he disliked the current circumstances, he really should not have been surprised to be in this position.

"Both of you are aware that as an officially sanctioned branch of the United Nations, the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement cannot condone retaliatory action. You will not be approved for leave, or receive any additional departmental support and resources. You will be relieved of Agent status, effective immediately. "In addition, as an ally of the C.I.A., U.N.C.L.E. is contractually obligated to report threats known to individuals and the agency as a whole."

"Da."

"Of course."

Their responses were almost demure - he’ll be entertained later, when he’s not so busy _fuming_ at the stupidity of certain other organizations.

"Excellent. Then we are at an understanding. The moment you both leave the building, you are officially Absent Without Leave. In three months, you will officially be declared rogue; and eventually Missing Presumed Dead. I will report accordingly that you are acting of your own volition and your subsequent actions will have no reflection on this organization." Ms. Teller's grin was frighteningly sharp. He sighs, "Godspeed Mr. Kuryakin, Ms. Teller."

"It has been an honour Sir." Kuryakin somehow manages to convey an incredibly convincing amount of appreciation through his typical stoic expression as he rises, followed gracefully by his teammate.

As the fading remnants of his inaugural team leave his office, Waverly allows himself a tight but smug smile. It was going to be a delightful challenge to politically inform the C.I.A. of precisely how useless his obligatory warning was going to be in the face of the formidable duo that was two-thirds of the best team in the industry.

Oh, and he should also probably send a cursory message to the KGB to inform them that Kuryakin was unlikely to be reporting back to them anymore. From Kuryakin’s calm demeanor, they probably know already, but he finds himself wanting to twist that particular knife just a little. For now, he is going to take a moment to bask in sheer _Schadenfreude_.

_Give them hell, Agents._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know if U.N.C.L.E. is officially sanctioned anything, but it worked in context. And I may have been looking for any excuse to spell out United Network etc. 
> 
> Apologies for any tense-switching, I'm not really sure what happened there except that I couldn't decide one way or another - it's on the list of things to edit for once the rest of the story is up. 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this interlude. Unfortunately, I'm still filling in fairly large pieces of Chapter 3, though the epilogue (Chapter 4) is much more complete. So don't expect anything until the new year.
> 
> Have a good holiday season!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work posted, so please review! Constructive criticism is always appreciated.
> 
> Edit: Serious thanks to all the people who responded so positively to this. I've added this project to my NaNoWriMo list, so expect some new content next month! But not 50,000 words. Probably less than 10k, like I said, it's part of a list...


End file.
